


Three French Hens

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [21]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Developing Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



It is Christmas Eve, and they're a little late. Still Aramis stops in his tracks, his eyes wide with wonder – just can't help himself. His breath comes out in little white clouds, for it is a rather cold Christmas Eve, and he tilts his head back, stares up towards the sky, a blue so dark it's almost black, clear and full of stars. It holds his attention for a moment, but then his eyes travel back down, take in the sight rather closer before him: the façade of the orphanage. It looks beautiful, with fairy lights in all the windows, turning the old bulky building into a place of magic. Even without snow it's perfect, for there's frost in every single window, catching the light, glittering festively. A massive Christmas wreath is adorning the entrance door, decorated in red and gold, welcoming them. 

"Come on then," Porthos murmurs behind Aramis, sounding fond and understanding. "They're waitin' for us." 

So they step inside, all three of them, one after the other. It is a big door, and still they have to manoeuvre carefully – do not want to damage any of their presents. They've come heavily laden, each carrying his own sack, and Aramis regrets that he didn't think of making them Santa costumes. That would have been _perfect_. Even the idea of Porthos dressed up as Santa Claus – it makes Aramis shiver. A little inappropriately, maybe, but what Father Christmas doesn't know won't hurt him. 

The inside of the orphanage is just as pretty as the outside. Festive garlands adorn _everything_ , most notably the big staircase leading towards the upper floors; and when they take off their coats and shawls Aramis and Porthos encounter the first mistletoe. It's perched right on top of the coat stand, adorned with an innocent red bow. 

"Flea's at it again, it seems," Porthos murmurs, leaning in and giving Aramis a nice, soft kiss. "I hope you brought lip balm." 

"I thought you were joking," Aramis whispers, blushing slightly. 

"Flea's mistletoe addiction is no joke," Athos drawls behind them. "Here, take this." 

He hands Aramis something that turns out to be a candy cane ChapStick, and Aramis blushes a little more. "Thank you." 

"Do not thank me," Athos drawls. "Just protect me from her tonight, I beg of you." 

Aramis makes a solemn promise to do his very best, and then they venture deeper inside the house. Christmas music welcomes them when they step into the big playroom, which is exceptionally tidy tonight. There's no sign of the big papier-mâché castle usually occupying the corner by the window. It has been replaced by a giant Christmas tree, decorated with more fairy lights and little paper stars handmade by the children. Small wooden toys perched on the branches round out the picture. Aramis loves it. He also wonders where everyone is. The room is empty, except for the tree. 

"Ha! Caught you!" comes Flea's voice from behind them. "Kiss!" Porthos huffs, leans in and gives Aramis another kiss – doesn't even check for the mistletoe above the door. "Very nice," she says, her voice smooth with satisfaction. "Now you, Athos." 

"I am standing next to you," Athos points out austerely, "and thus not under that thing. Where are the children?" 

"Upstairs, getting ready," Flea informs him, apparently used to his refusal to kiss anyone. "They're very excited to put on their Sunday best. You can put your presents under the tree while we wait for them to come down." Aramis and Porthos move forward at once, while Athos waits for Flea to cross into the room before him. She rolls her eyes at him. "I really don't know what your problem is." 

"By now I am mostly doing it to annoy you," Athos drawls, joining them all by the tree. 

Flea sticks her tongue out at him, and then allows herself to be distracted by the number of presents they spread on the floor. "Jesus Christ, didn't the Captain tell you that we already bought something for everyone?" 

"Well, it's a special year," Porthos murmurs, looking at Aramis from the corner of his eye. 

Flea groans. "You're disgusting. Plus, you're going to get them used to this, and what then?" 

"Since I am not about to lose my money speculating on the stock market, I fail to see where the problem is," Athos informs her. "The children deserve to be spoiled, so let us spoil them." 

"Alright, alright." She grins suddenly. "Did you get me something, too?" 

"Of course we did," Athos says, sounding fond all of a sudden. "You are going to love it." 

She smiles and winks at him, and Aramis wants to smish them both. So does Porthos, apparently – who goes right ahead and does it. "I love you two a lot!" 

"Oh god, the Christmas Spirit has taken a hold of him again," Flea groans from the depth of his embrace. "Save yourselves!" 

Since Aramis is currently the only one at liberty to move, nobody heeds her warning. Aramis is far too busy taking a picture and grinning his head off. This is going to be awesome. 

 

"You are insane," Charon informs Aramis half an our later, eyes twinkling, clearly appreciative of Aramis' state of mind. "You belong behind bars!" 

"I only did what Porthos told me to do," Aramis justifies himself, his gaze following Flea's dancing movements across the room. "And she seems happy enough." 

"You made her a fairy costume – what do you expect!" Charon laughs, his gaze on Flea as well. "She only wanted one since she was five!" 

"This is amazing," Flea informs them from the other side of the room. "The wings _jingle_." 

"I sewed little bells into them," Aramis whispers to Charon. "I was told they were important." 

"She looks beautiful," Charon murmurs, clearly not listening to Aramis anymore. All of his attention is focused on his beloved, who is currently trying out some dance moves that look rather racy for a fairy. 

Flea isn't the only one going bonkers over her costume. Peter has a brand new Spiderman suit – necessarily so since the old one was getting rather short around the ankles – and is perching on the bookcase by the door, looking dramatic; little Annie is a perfect pink Godzilla with stylishly purple back scales; she keeps roaring at the Captain who wears his pirate hat with charm and elegance; Teddy has a new princess dress to twirl around in … and Baby Gwen refuses to give up and realize that the glittering halo over her head is out of her reach. 

Aramis made her an angel costume. She looks adorable. He sighs. One second later Flea is strangling him half to death. "I love it!" she gushes from behind him, adjusting her grip on him so his windpipe is no longer blocked. "It's perfect, you glorious, nimble-fingered man!" She follows this declaration up with two smacking kisses to Aramis' cheeks, and then she dances into view to descend on Charon, sits down in his lap and spreads her arms, jingles her wings. "Look at me!" 

"Oh, believe me, I am," he rasps. 

Aramis sighs again. This is wonderful. 

 

"See, and this is why we give them their presents before dinner," the Captain explains calmly, watching the madness swap from one side of the room to the other. He has taken Charon's place by Aramis' side, a rock of calm in a sea of noise and glitter. "Otherwise we would never get them to bed." He smirks suddenly, the left side of his mouth tilting up. "Thank you for the hat, by the way. Was this Porthos' idea?" 

"Athos', actually," Aramis reveals, and the Captain chuckles, catches Annie when she roars at him again and pulls her into his lap. 

"Come here you little monster!" 

He snuggles her and she giggles, looks at Aramis out of shining brown eyes. "You are a great boyfriend!" 

Aramis blushes and the Captain laughs, gives her a kiss and lets her go so she can join the impromptu dance off Flea has instigated. 

"She's right, you know," the Captain says, looking across the room at Porthos. "I've never seen him so happy." 

All of a sudden Aramis has no idea how to form words, how to throw them together so a proper sentence comes out instead of the overwhelmed gibberish his brain supplies him with. All he can do is level a helpless smile at the Captain and hope he understands. 

Apparently he does. He chuckles and smiles back at Aramis, pats his arm. "It's quite alright." He takes off his hat, strokes his fingers through his greying hair. "I'm told Athos is quite fond of you as well." His gaze travels from Porthos to Athos and he sighs, watches him pluck Peter from the book case and cast the boy into Porthos' waiting arms. "They have always been inseparable, those two." Aramis makes a weak noise, and the Captain pats his arm again. "I'm glad someone finally managed to join their ranks." 

 

"Oh god I am so full," Porthos groans, sinking back in his chair next to Aramis, holding his belly. "We need to send them flowers or something, Athos – they outdid themselves this year." 

Aramis agrees and slumps sideways, soaks up the after-dinner atmosphere. The dining room has its own slightly smaller Christmas tree, decorated with straw stars and red ribbons, matching the magnificent centre piece on the table. There are real candles poised on its branches (and a fire extinguisher is hidden in the curtains of the window beside it). All around the big table the children are displaying comparable signs of overeating, and Aramis doesn't wonder at it. Apparently Athos has an understanding with a local restaurant – has them deliver outrageously delicious food every year on the 24th to the orphanage; not only so the children get their special treat, but also so nobody has to stand in the kitchen and cook for the whole gang on Christmas. 

"They are getting flowers," Athos smiles across the table at Porthos. "And four times their usual salary." He smirks suddenly, indicating Porthos' prone form. "Does this display mean that you are too full for ice cream?" 

"I am never too full for ice cream," Porthos informs him grandly. "You know that." 

"I do," Athos confirms with a fond grin, getting up. "I shall get it." 

"Let me help you," Aramis says, springing to his feet as well and following Athos to the door. 

They've almost left the room when there's a bellowing "Ha!" and Flea's finger pointing in their direction, at the mistletoe above the door. "You better not try getting around this one, Comte Grumpy Grumps!" 

Athos sighs dramatically, and shoves his lower lip at Aramis, actually pouting. "You promised to protect me." 

He looks soft in the candle light, his eyes deep green and affectionate, and Aramis feels warmth uncoil in his belly that has nothing to do with Christmas or the splendid food he just ate. "From her," he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse, and he steps closer to Athos, cups his cheeks and rubs his thumbs over Athos' stubble. "Not from me." 

He waits a moment, gives Athos the chance to pull back. Athos doesn't. Athos smiles at him. "Go ahead then, you traitor." 

Aramis can't resist such an invitation. It feels strange, kissing Athos in front of all of these people – strange, but nice. Athos is still smiling at him afterwards, gently touches Aramis' elbow and pulls him along, out of the room and down the hall towards the kitchen, while Aramis tries very hard not to lick his lips. They get the ice cream bowls out of the huge freezer and distribute them on two trays, carry those back to the dining room. 

Flea is grinning at Aramis when he places her bowl in front of her, and Aramis blushes, doesn't need Charon's whispered disclosure that he's the first one who ever managed to catch Athos beneath a mistletoe and actually exchange a kiss. His ears are burning by the time he sits back down next to Porthos, has no idea where to look, what to do with his hands. Porthos solves that problem for him, takes Aramis' hand into his own and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I took a picture," he informs Aramis, leaning into him, close enough that Aramis' can smell his aftershave, can feel his breath on his skin. "It's turnin' into a really nice collection. We should put those somewhere – maybe do a little collage above your dresser, eh?" 

Aramis' heart flip-flops in his chest, and he feels giddy, suddenly, overwhelmed with happiness that he gets to have all this – this boyfriend and this night, surrounded by people who love each other, who welcome him into their midst and let him kiss their Athos. 

 

Several hours later Aramis is still just as happy, if a little tired. 

"She is pooped," Porthos informs him, sounding rather pleased. 

Aramis nearly melts where he stands, leaving nothing but a pink puddle in the hallway in front of the nursery. Because Porthos has Gwen in his arms, and she's still wearing her angel costume, its little golden wings sticking out left and right to Porthos' arm. She's half asleep, babbling to herself and rubbing her eyes, and Porthos puts her down on the changing mat while Aramis finally steps into the room and joins him. 

"You're pooped too, eh?" Porthos grins after a glance at him. "I'm gonna put her to bed, and then we can go home," he adds, peeling Gwen out of her costume. He pauses only to point at the mistletoe above their heads, and leans in with a little grin. Aramis lifts his chin, like a child wanting to be kissed, and he closes his eyes when their lips meet, exhales into Porthos' mouth, utterly blissful. When he finally pulls back, Gwen is blowing raspberries and makes another spirited attempt to grab her halo. 

Porthos catches her little hand and lets her grab his finger instead. "Did you tell Athos where we went?" 

"I am here," comes Athos' voice from the door, and when Aramis turns he sees him leaning against the frame, watching them. "I made my escape while Flea wasn't looking." He comes closer then, joins them in front of the low dresser with the changing mat on top, smiles down at Gwen. "That costume is perfect, Aramis. She looks adorable." 

Gwen promptly smiles at him. Aramis' knees nearly give up on him at that point, and not from exhaustion. He's had the most beautiful Christmas Eve, and cannot even begin to speculate on how the next day is going to turn out. Athos' Parents have invited them. To their mansion, out in the country. They will spend the night there and drive on to Aramis' hometown on the 26th. 

Aramis is justifiably excited.


	2. Chapter 2

"You look gorgeous." Aramis' gaze wavers from his reflection in the mirror in his room, and he spots Porthos behind him in the door frame, smiling fondly. "Charon outdid himself this year." 

"I maintain that mine is the best," Athos proclaims, stepping into view. "I mean look at this!" He grabs the hem of his knitted sweater and pulls it smooth – flattens the depiction of a magnificent Christmas tree, surrounded by presents, woven on _blood_ … at least that's how Porthos describes it. 

"Red is a perfectly natural colour to choose for a background," Athos informs him lordly, poking him in the reindeer. "At least my chest is not adorned with a giant nose." 

"I don't know what you mean, I'm adorable," Porthos chuckles, stepping directly behind Aramis, closing his arms around his middle to hug him from behind. "And so are you, kitten. I hope you like your Christmas sweater." 

Aramis does. It is baby blue and has snow-flakes on it. It's far more understated than Porthos' or even Athos', but then it's difficult not to be. Charon probably didn't want to scare him by going all out in his first year. 

"My mother will be very pleased," Athos drawls from beside them, studying them in the mirror. "This will make a good picture for the Christmas wall." 

Just like that, Aramis is nervous again. He likes Athos' mother, he really does, but he's only met her the one time, and quite briefly at that. Today there will be much more opportunity for her to scrutinize him, and if that wasn't bad enough she will be joined by her husband. Comte de la Fère. Athos' Father. Oh God. 

Aramis closes his eyes and lets out a fluttering breath, and Porthos huffs, gives him a gentle shake. "Will you relax. They're nice people. All of them. We'll have fun." 

Athos touches Aramis' elbow then, gentle and soothing. "There is really nothing to be nervous about, Aramis. My family likes you quite a lot – the girls expressed a rather ardent desire for you to join us this year … and that includes Evangeline. Thomas even went so far as to claim that you're the only person in the world she would never do even the slightest bodily harm." 

Porthos lets out a soft noise of amusement at that, and gives Aramis a warm squeeze. "There you have it, kitten. Everyone's in love with you." 

Aramis seriously doubts that. 

 

"You know Angelique will spend all night booping that nose," the Comtesse smiles, descending the steps into the entrance hall and floating towards them until she is close enough to pat Porthos' chest. "You look fabulous." 

Porthos grins and gives her the mother of all bear hugs. Aramis is a little overwhelmed. The driveway up to the mansion went on for miles. The building itself is both imposing and intimidating, and they were let into it by an actual butler, who greeted Athos by calling him Young Master. _Young Master_. And now the Comtesse who is grace and splendour personified. Once free from Porthos' clutches she dismisses the butler and his henchman to take their luggage upstairs, and helps them deposit their coats herself. Aramis cannot help but admire her cream-coloured dress, resplendent in the dimmed winter light falling in through the floor length windows left and right of the entrance door. 

He suddenly feels horribly underdressed. Until she hugs him, that is. "Welcome, my dear," she murmurs into his ear, stroking his back. "Thank you for accepting our invitation. I hope the drive was not too exhausting." Aramis assures her that it wasn't, and she smiles up at him, admires his sweater. "You are all looking very fine," she says, looking from one to the other. "Charon's skills have reached a whole new level." 

"He informed me that he did not even stop when his fingers started bleeding," Athos drawls, pulling her close and brushing a kiss to her cheek once she has released Aramis. "Thank goodness for Aramis making the children all these costumes this year – we can finally strike back with the exaggerated stories of martyrdom." 

She grabs him by the shoulders and holds him at arms length in front of her for a moment, takes in the full glory of his Christmas tree. "Dear lord. Bleeding fingers certainly explain the colour." 

"Yes," he smiles, looking adorably boyish for a moment, "pure perfection, isn't it?" 

She shakes her head, a hand to her cheek. "Your father will talk you out of it in a heartbeat, you know that, right?" 

"He is much more dignified than I am," Athos replies grandly, "and can thus wear anything." 

"It is the silver hair," she agrees, and links arms with Athos. "Come on then. Let us join the others." 

In theory nothing to be afraid of, but Aramis still holds his breath and bites his lip, and is rather grateful when Porthos takes his hand. He needn't have worried. The girls overrun them as soon as they step through the door, each demanding to be picked up and kissed, so Aramis has a very pretty human shield in the form of Melissa when the Comte shakes his hand and welcomes him to his home. Once that is overcome, Melissa informs Aramis that he needs to give her another hair cut as soon as possible. 

"I can do that, sweetheart," Aramis promises her softly, smiles as she strangles him in gratitude, and turns to greet her parents. He can do this. He can absolutely do this. 

 

Aramis can't do this. Approximately ten minutes have passed since they have set foot into the living room – or rather salon – and Athos is no longer wearing his Christmas sweater. He has exchanged it for his Father's – dark green and incredibly soft to the touch. Aramis doesn't even want to speculate on its price. He also can't stop staring at the Comte while he pretends to admire the painting behind the dining table (already set and decorated for the evening feast). Emilia left him gazing up at it to make a quick trip down to the kitchens, to fluster her staff and inquire if everything is underway for the dinner. 

Apparently she thought the painting would be sufficient to entertain Aramis in her absence. Not that it's not a pretty painting. It's very pretty! Beautiful even, depicting the mansion as it stood one-hundred years ago. Still. Not what's riveting Aramis' attention. For Athos is the very image of his Father, is just like him in both height and build, and the sight of Athos and Thomas standing side by side with the Comte is at once heart-warming and impressive. Heart-warming because the Comte is wearing Athos' horrible Christmas sweater with all signs of enjoyment, impressive because they are all three of them very good-looking men. 

Aramis can admit that much. To himself. They are standing in a half-circle in front of the gigantic fire place, a remnant from the times when the mansion was built. The festivities are taking place in the west wing of the building, in one of the more modern, _smaller_ rooms. Aramis thinks it might be possible to play a match of tennis in here without removing any of the furniture. Still, it is a charming room – cosy even. The furniture mixes the modern with the very old, and it comes together quite nicely – tastefully. The colours in the room are muted and range from chocolate to white, a theme repeated in the Christmas ornaments and the glass balls sitting in the magnificent tree. It is dominating the south-west corner of the room and stands next to a flight of floor-length windows, overlooking the gardens, which are currently covered by a glittering veneer of frost. Still no snow. The walls of the room are panelled with oak up to the height of Aramis' hip, and from there on upwards it's the most exquisite wallpaper he has ever seen – cream-coloured with golden swirls and flowers, right up to the three meter high ceiling. 

Aramis wonders if the Comtesse chose her dress to match that wallpaper. He wouldn't blame her. 

"That man has been stealing Athos' sweaters for the past ten years," Porthos suddenly murmurs into Aramis' ear, appearing at his elbow and distracting him from his contemplations by handing him a small glass of eggnog. "I don't know why he and Charon chose this roundabout way to exchange presents – I have no idea what they think will happen when Charon gives him the bloody sweaters without Athos as intermediary." 

"Well, for one Flea would never ever shut up about it," Aramis whispers back. "And what do you mean, exchange presents? Do you mean to tell me -" 

"Who do you think pays for all this horrid wool?" Porthos chuckles. "As far as I can tell Charon can go to the fancy wool shop in town and order whatever he likes – Bertie pays for everything." 

Aramis flushes, alarmed in case their host has heard them. "Don't call him that." 

Porthos blinks. "Why not? That's his name." 

"Yes, but he's a _Comte_." 

Porthos rolls his eyes, very affectionately. "Who told you to call him Bertie – or Albert, if you prefer." 

Bertie – or Albert – chooses this moment to approach, and Aramis stiffens. So far he only had time to exchange that handshake with Athos' father, and then Melissa demanded to be put down so she and her sisters could be properly admired while they sang them the Christmas Carol they learned for the occasion. Now that the girls are busy telling their Uncle Athos all about this year's Christmas presents it's Bertie's turn to do some descending. 

"Aramis, correct?" he smiles, looking deceptively harmless in his stolen Christmas sweater. "My wife tells me you are having quite the beneficial influence on my Son." Aramis flushes horribly and has no idea what to say. Bertie smiles benevolently and leaves him be. "I hope you are well, Porthos?" 

"Very," Porthos confirms with a warm grin, putting his arm around Aramis and pulling him close, thus offering solely needed support. "Likin' your new sweater?" 

"I would say it is the best so far," Bertie smiles, peering down at his own chest. "My compliments to Charon." 

"I'll tell him you like it," Porthos says, stroking his hand over Aramis' side. 

Bertie looks from one to the other and Aramis has no idea what to do with the expression on his face – warm approval mixed with sadness. That is when Athos joins them, handing his father a tumbler filled with apple cider. "You forgot this." 

"Thank you, Son," Bertie says, watching Athos join Aramis and Porthos, and his expression changes, turns contemplating. "So, tell me – what did your friends give you for Christmas this year?" 

"You mean apart from Love and Companionship?" Athos asks back, and the tone of his voice is only half joking. Aramis very nearly _meeps_. He has no idea what's happening to him. He hasn't meeped in years. "We have not exchanged gifts yet," Athos continues, smiling softly at his own tumbler of apple cider, looking horribly fond. "We have agreed to do it once we are back home from visiting Aramis' family." 

"Ah yes," Bertie murmurs. "Emilia was telling me that you have quite the busy schedule this year." 

For a moment Aramis fears that Bertie is disapproving of him taking Athos and Porthos away a day early this year, but then Bertie smiles at him. "It is quite kind of your parents to invite these two to their home." 

"Just as kind as it was of you to invite me," Aramis replies, feeling the blood rise to his cheeks yet again. 

Bertie twinkles at him. "Ah, but I had to meet the famous Aramis, you see? This was merely the easiest way to lure you into my house." 

"Next time just invite yourself to dinner," Athos drawls, causing his Father to raise his brow at him. 

"Are you questioning my strategies?" 

"Merely the exaggerated level of effort you put into their execution," Athos smiles. "You do not need to throw a party like this to meet my friends." 

"Your mother has her soirees," Bertie replies solemnly. "Allow me my Christmas parties." 

 

"You are enjoying yourself, I see." 

Aramis looks up, caught in the act of taking a picture of Athos – who has fallen asleep on one of the big sofas in the corner by the tree, cradling Angelique in his arms. It isn't even all that late yet, just barely getting dark – not even time for dinner, and still Athos is deeply asleep, stretched out on his back, with his niece lying starfished on his belly. It's just too cute not to take a picture. 

Evangeline smiles at him. "I promise I won't tell anyone." She sits down next to him on the second sofa standing opposite from the one Athos is sleeping on and contemplates her brother in law for a moment. They sit in silence, while Porthos is playing with Rebecca and Melissa in front of the tree, fondly watched by their grandparents and father just a few feet away. "I was worried about him," Evangeline says eventually, her voice very low. "When he first told us about you, I mean. Very worried." 

"I know," Aramis replies, his voice just as soft as hers. "I don't blame you." 

She takes his hand then, and smiles at him. "I have never seen him so happy – or Porthos either. They never brought anyone home for Christmas." 

Her words leave an echo in Aramis' heart, make it feel huge and hollow and filled with light, and he gives her hand a squeeze and blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes. "They make me really happy, too." 

"We know," she whispers, letting go of his hand to catch Rebecca when she joins them on the sofa, throwing herself at them. "Shht, darling, you're going to wake your Uncle." 

Rebecca presses her lips together and peeks over her shoulder, grins when she sees Athos and Angelique. "Aww, they're cute." 

"Yes," Evangeline agrees, immediately breaking the promise she made to Aramis mere minutes ago. "We took pictures – well, Uncle Aramis did." 

"Good," Rebecca whispers, snuggling into her Mother's lap. "We don't have to go to bed soon, do we?" She stares at her mother out of huge, pleading eyes. "Just because Uncle Athos is asleep, I mean?" 

"Of course not," Evangeline scoffs. "What – and go to bed without dinner? I don't think so!" 

Rebecca giggles and gives her a kiss, before she scampers into Aramis' lap, and waves at her Grandfather to come and have a look at Sleeping Beauty and the Beast. 

"It appears to be time for coffee," Bertie observes, smiling at his wife. "Shall I go and tell George?" 

"Please do," she nods. "And remind him of the honey cakes – they are in the pantry." 

"He personally let Porthos into the house," Bertie drawls. "How could he ever forget about those honey cakes." 

 

"And – what do you think?" Porthos asks Aramis, stroking a strand of hair behind his ear. They are in bed, a massive four-poster with wine-coloured damask silk drapes, and Aramis has trouble focussing on anything but its decadent splendour. 

"I think this bed is amazing," he murmurs, rolling half on top of Porthos. "Do you think Emilia would let me take it home?" 

Porthos chuckles and kisses him, turning on his side so he can pull Aramis properly into his arms. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. But that's not quite what I meant." 

"What did you mean then?" Aramis whispers, brushing a kiss to Porthos' lips … and another one. "What do I think of what?" 

"Of Athos' family," Porthos whispers back, adding a few kisses of his own to the ever-growing list. "Do you still feel nervous around them?" 

"I'm always going to be nervous around the Comte and the Comtesse," Aramis sighs, revelling in the comfort of their king-size mattress, "but Emilia and Bertie I don't mind so much." 

Porthos is smiling when Aramis pulls back to look at him, satisfied and happy. "That's good to hear. They're nice people – and Athos loves 'em a lot." 

"They love him a lot, too," Aramis muses, staring up at the canopy. He gnaws on his lip for a moment, glances at Porthos from the corner of his eye. 

"What is it?" Porthos asks him promptly. 

Aramis holds his breath, and then he lets the question tumble out, consequences be damned. "Would you … would you mind it horribly," he asks Porthos in a hoarse voice, "if I told you that – that I like Athos _almost_ as much as I like you?" 

"Of course not," says the Best of all Boyfriends, wearing a rather smug grin, pulling Aramis in for yet another kiss. "Athos is, after all, almost as amazing as I am."


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh wow," Porthos says, and Aramis is pleased to perceive that he sounds properly impressed. "I always thought the Captain went all out with his decorations, but this -" He stops talking and parks the car, manoeuvres it as close as possible to the side-walk without scratching the rims. 

"Yeah, Dad sure likes his bling," Aramis beams, jumping out of Tank #2, as Porthos has so lovingly dubbed it. Apparently Athos is entirely unable to acquire cars that weigh less than five tons. Aramis likes it though. The back seats are vastly comfortable. He napped for a bit on the road. Once he's out of the car he takes in his Father's handiwork in the garden around his parents' big old house. There are fairy lights in all the trees and all the bushes – all those _many_ bushes – and the stone pathway leading up to the house is flanked by actual candles. The house itself is just as magnificently decorated as the orphanage had been, with fairy lights in all the windows and the addition of a big red paper star in the arch above the entrance door. 

"Putting all the extension cables down used to be a nightmare," Aramis says as Athos steps up next to him, brushing their shoulders together. "Mom tells me he's finally switched to remotely controlled lights this year." 

"It must look spectacular when it gets properly dark," Athos muses, briefly looking over his shoulder to check on Porthos. "Do you need any help with that?" 

"Nope," Porthos smirks, heaving their luggage out of the trunk. "You go on and admire the Bling." 

"I will do that when it is blinging in darkness," Athos drawls, linking arms with Aramis and pulling him towards the rear end of the car. "You are allowed to use us a bit, you know? We are not quite so weak as you make us out to be." 

"You keep sayin' that," Porthos grins, handing Athos the heaviest bag just to watch him sag under its weight, "and then when I actually do use you, you don't stop complainin' for days on end." 

Aramis' ears are a bit red when Porthos is done with that little speech, and he is very grateful for his Mother's appearance on the scene, rather stylish in a dark grey knitted dress and blood red tights. "You haven't lost that inner voice yet, have you?" he grins at her, walking right into her outstretched arms. "You can still tell when we come back home." 

"Yes," she agrees. " _That_ and the noise your little tank was making, coming up the street." She gives him a squeeze and kisses his cheek, glances at Athos' latest vehicle of choice. "What a monster." 

"Felt like steerin' a dragon," Porthos agrees happily. "It was amazin'." 

Athos rolls his eyes and allows Erica to hug him. "He kept making flame-thrower noises when taking a corner – or at least what he thinks flame-thrower noises sound like." 

Erica laughs and releases him, turns and reaches up to Porthos' cheeks to smish him a little. "Aren't you the sweetest boy." 

"I sure am," Porthos agrees, leaning in to give her a hug. "Your garden looks amazing, by the way." 

"Yes, I know – Tony's been at it for hours. I wish I had his patience." She glances at the sparkling masterpiece. "He buys those little bulbs in bulk, and every second evening he creeps through the bushes, trying to find the one that's broken in the strings that don't work." She sighs dramatically. "I see very little of my husband on those evenings." 

Aramis laughs and calls her a liar, hoists up his bag and pulls her towards the house. "Let's get inside. It's so cold out here!" 

"How I have missed you, my delicate flower," Erica mocks him, pulling on the hood of his oversized coat. "But you may rejoice – your Father has lit the fireplace this morning, knowing you were coming … and freezing." 

They enter the house and are greeted by Tony in the hall, who promptly chastises his wife for not alerting him to his offspring's arrival. "For once it would be nice if you would tell me, so I can come outside with you," he complains, pulling Aramis into a hug before he even gets his coat off. 

"What, so you can monopolize him next to the car?" she snorts. "No thank you. I like to get my hugs in while I still can." Aramis relaxes, hearing his parents' fond snark, and he closes his eyes, snuggles into his Father's embrace. "There you go again," Erica sighs, watching them for a heartbeat or two. "Alright, you boys," she addresses Porthos and Athos then, "come inside. I've made coffee, and there are cookies as well. Flapjacks," she adds over her shoulder while walking away, and Aramis' mouth pulls into a helpless smile as his Father's arms reflexively tighten around him. 

"Just a moment." 

"Yes," Aramis agrees, not moving an inch. "Just a moment." 

 

When Aramis steps into the guest room a few minutes later, Porthos has already brought all their luggage upstairs. 

"I could have carried my own bag," Aramis says, stroking a sheepish hand through his hair, and Porthos smiles at him, shakes his head. 

"Sometimes you and Athos are so much alike that it frightens me. Do you want to tell me to use you, too? Because I don't think your parents would approve." 

Aramis blushes and sticks his tongue out at him. "You're not funny." 

"Yes," Porthos insists, grinning happily, "I am." He advances on Aramis and pulls him into his arms, kisses his cheek. "Glad to be back home?" 

"Very," Aramis murmurs, snuggling into him. "Dad says the girls will come over in an hour or so – Giselle even promised to bring Ricardo, so you can meet him." 

"Lookin' forward to that," Porthos says, dipping his head for another kiss. 

When they part, Athos is standing in the open door, watching them. "Can we go down for coffee now?" 

"No-one's stoppin' you," Porthos huffs, while Aramis lengthens his stride to link his arm with Athos' and walk down the stairs with him. 

"I think it's nice that you waited for us." 

"You hear that?" Athos drawls, turning his head back to grin at Porthos. "He thinks it's nice." 

"He still harbours misconceptions about your character," Porthos grins back. 

"Oh, I do not think so," Athos says under his breath. Aramis blushes. Athos turns his head to look at him then, naturally, and Aramis blushes a little more. "Or do you?" Athos asks him softly. Aramis shakes his head, his ears bright red. "Thought so," Athos says, just as softly as before. 

They reach the bottom of the stairs then, and Athos gently leads Aramis into the kitchen, where his parents are waiting with coffee and cookies. It seems that his Father went all out this year. Not only did he make the usual flapjacks, but also shortbread – wildly decorated, no holds barred – and something that looks suspiciously like blueberry stuffed lemon scones. Aramis stares. 

Porthos leans in from behind. "He called and asked. I spilled all our secrets." 

"Not all of them," Athos drawls. "I do not see any honey cakes." 

"Are you kidding?" Porthos huffs. "As if I'd do that to your mother." Athos elbows him in the ribs, and Aramis steps forward to give his Dad another hug, thanks him for the largesse. 

"Ah, you know I like to bake," he replies calmly. "It relaxes me." His eyes wander from Athos to Porthos and back again, and he grins. "Your boys are very energetic today." 

The way he says 'Your Boys' causes a very noticeable BLIP on Aramis' radar. He doesn't have too much time to think or even panic about it – they relocate to the living room, where Erica nods meaningfully in the direction of the picture wall. "Look what your sisters prepared for you." 

Aramis steps forward, brows raised quizzically. The picture wall depicts his family's growth over the years. It holds his parents' wedding photo, and all pictures of importance after that. The first baby and then the second, the third, the fourth. Candid shots of the children playing, of them growing up. There's a picture of Melinda with Aramis in her arms when he was three days old, flanked by one of her holding the first baby of her own. Most of the oldest pictures are in the middle, with the newer ones spreading around them. It takes Aramis a moment to spot the latest additions, and then he nearly melts where he stands. 

"Giselle took them," his Mother says behind him, while Aramis takes in the pictures of himself with Athos and Porthos, taken on the morning of the big birthday party. 

"I want copies," he hears himself say, entranced, and he closes his eyes when Athos and Porthos step up beside him, left and right, to have a look at the pictures, too. No wonder his Dad called them His Boys. 

 

"You look great!" Hannah exclaims two hours later as she breezes into the living room, still wearing her coat and boots. "Porthos is clearly feeding you right!" She nearly suffocates Aramis in her massive shawl as she hugs him, pulls back just in time, leaving him gasping for air. She's late, as usual; everyone else has arrived roughly one hour earlier, and her Mother conveys as much with a rather basilisk glare in Hannah's direction. 

"The weather was bad?" Hannah tries as she becomes aware of it, and Erica groans, throws her hands in the air. 

"No dessert for you!" 

"But Mom!" Hannah whines, "Dad told me he'd make his honeycake mousse!" 

Porthos' head snaps up at that, and Athos grins like a cheshire cat. "He called me, too." 

Erica is fighting a fond grin following that exchange, but it drops off her face to be replaced by a stern expression when she looks back at Hannah. "No dessert for you," she repeats. 

Hannah pouts. Ricardo clears his throat. "You can have mine." 

Hannah beams at him. "I have missed you, Mister July!" She throws off her coat to hug the rest of the assembly, while Erica informs Ricardo very lovingly that he is undermining her attempts at parenting. 

"I think it's a little late for that," Giselle says, giving her sister an enthusiastic squeeze. "You can either accept it, or kill her." 

"I vote for killing," Melinda pipes up, grinning wolfishly when Hannah glares at her. "That will teach her." 

"Teach her what, precisely?" Luke demands, winking at his wife. "She'll be dead after all." 

"You and your logic," Melinda huffs. She gets up to pick Hannah's coat off the floor, and marches her out of the room to get rid of her boots. 

Erica watches their retreat with an amused expression, and Aramis is rather certain that his sister will get all the dessert she wants today. 

 

"I'm pretty sure Ricardo's in love with Giselle." Porthos takes off his pullover, revealing lots and lots of incredibly appealing skin, and Aramis blinks, his brain frozen into uselessness. Porthos chuckles. "I told you to be careful with the eggnog." 

Aramis shakes his head to clear it of the lustful haze obstructing its activity. "I am not drunk." 

"That is what you always say," Athos comments, coming into the guest room from the adjoining bathroom, wearing his wood green pyjamas. Since Hannah had just about as much eggnog as Aramis and has thus taken over Athos' intended room, he will be sharing a bed with them tonight. Something Aramis is looking forward to, if he's quite honest. With himself. Quietly. Which is rather difficult with all that eggnog in his system. 

"Are you sure you do not mind me joining you tonight?" Athos asks, and Porthos rolls his eyes at him. "Yes, Athos. We are sure. As always." 

"Merely making sure," Athos drawls at him. "Since Aramis is not drunk at all and does not look at you like he wants to eat you for dessert." 

"We had dessert," Porthos grins, continuing to undress while Aramis' ears turn the kind of Red Rudolph's nose must have been. "Lots of it, actually." 

"None more than you," Athos agrees, studying Aramis' face. "Seriously, Aramis – I can sleep on the couch downstairs. Your mother offered." 

"No!" Aramis barks, blinking at his own volume and clearing his throat. "Sorry. No. I don't want you to sleep on the couch tonight. I can't have sex with Porthos under my parents' roof anyway." 

"Wow," Porthos comments, stepping into his flannel bottoms. "No filter after eggnog either." 

"And we thought it was only the champagne," Athos smiles, his expression softly amused. 

Aramis blinks just as slowly as he did before. When the realization of what he just said hits him, he throws himself onto the bed, glowing with shame. "Oh God." 

"Aw, stop it, you're too cute," Porthos says. "Isn't he cute, Athos?" 

"Very cute," Athos agrees. 

Aramis flushes all over. It's not just the teasing, it's that they're teasing him _together_. It's the kind of tag-teaming he has absolutely no defence against. He _loves_ it. He wants _more_ of it. He bites down on a groan and burrows deeper into the bedding, pulls the blanket over his head to hide himself. He is a shameless, greedy - 

"Aramis?" Athos asks then, and Aramis can feel him sitting down on the side of the bed. "Are you alright? Did we go too far?" 

And _that_ \- that's just so - 

Aramis throws away his blanket, wriggles across the mattress and latches on to Athos with both arms. "No no no, you didn't go too far, it's just that I really like you both a lot, and when you tease me _together_ -" Athos' hand in his hair stops the babbling, and Aramis takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. "I like it," he whispers, his cheeks hot with shame. "… I really like it." 

Above his head Athos and Porthos share a glance, and when Porthos smiles, Athos resumes petting Aramis' hair. "Lucky us, then." 

Porthos joins them on the bed at that point, lies down behind Aramis and aligns their bodies, brushes Aramis' hair away from his neck so he can kiss it. With Aramis still halfway in Athos' lap their position is more than just a little compromising, but since neither Athos nor Porthos seem to care, Aramis relaxes, too. They don't mind, is the thing. They never did. They accept him just the way he is. 

 

Breakfast with the family the next morning is lovely as always. Melinda and Giselle have returned with both family and Ricardo the firefighter, and Porthos deepens his budding friendship with the man while he holds little Timothy on his lap and acts as though he doesn't notice the adoring gaze from Melinda's daughter Adana from across the table. She has just turned fourteen and seems rather intent on her first crush. Aramis approves. She could have chosen worse. Far worse. 

Hannah is a bit pale from her eggnog excesses on the previous evening, but otherwise in high force, informing Athos of her intention to visit them all as soon as possible. "Because Aramis has told me that his room has basically reverted to being a guest room, and I intend to make the best possible use of that!" 

"Well, you will have to wait – because I go first," Giselle announces with a little smile. "Athos and I have discussed it last night." 

Ricardo turns to her at that, looking both suspicious and a little hurt. "Where was I when you made that plan?" 

"Plying my sister with dessert," she says flippantly, apparently deaf and blind to the undying love and devotion in his demeanour. Aramis pities the man. Giselle can be incredibly dim. 

Next to Aramis, Porthos clears his throat, "Well, if you wanna join her, I'm sure we can make arrangements." 

Ricardo smiles at him. "That's nice, man, but I don't know if I can get off from work." 

"Well, check," Giselle says, refilling his coffee cup. "It's been ages since we last went somewhere together. It'll be fun." 

She smiles at him and he lights up like a Christmas tree, making Aramis smile down into his own coffee cup. As much as Ricardo deserves to be pitied, there are probably worse things than pining after Giselle. 

 

Once breakfast is over and they have said goodbye to everyone but Tony and Erica, Aramis lumbers upstairs to pack his bags. It doesn't take him too long, and he soon joins Athos and Porthos in the hall, who had already packed before breakfast. He's feeling a bit torn – on the one hand he doesn't want to leave his parents' house, on the other he can't wait to get home. Not only to finally exchange his presents with Athos and Porthos, but because it's _home_. As much as he loves the house he grew up in, it's just not the same as being alone with Athos and Porthos in the home they've built for themselves – the home they opened up to him and let him become a part of. 

"You ready?" Porthos asks when Aramis slips into his coat, draping the scarf around his neck the way he always does, and Aramis smiles at him and nods. 

"Ready." 

"Good," Athos drawls from behind them, pointing out the window, "because it just started snowing."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays <3


End file.
